


With Teeth

by rearranged (her_ghost)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Gore, Hell Fic, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-27
Updated: 2014-11-27
Packaged: 2018-02-27 04:02:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2678270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/her_ghost/pseuds/rearranged
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel thought that he saved the flickering light of the Righteous Man's soul when he laid claim to the fragment in Hell, but he was too late; Dean's soul succumbed to darkness and he claimed Castiel in return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Despair

**Author's Note:**

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> This was written for the 2014 [Dean/Cas Big Bang](http://deancasbigbang.livejournal.com/) (mini!) challenge on LiveJournal. [Daffenger made fantastic art for my story that you should check out!](http://daffenger.livejournal.com/25739.html)
> 
> You can find my notes and acknowledgements on the [With Teeth Masterpost](http://rearranged.livejournal.com/866812.html).

"Wave goodbye  
To what you were,  
The rules have changed,  
The lines begin to blur."  
-Nine Inch Nails, _With Teeth_

“When Castiel first laid a hand on you in Hell, he was lost.” -Hester

**1\. Despair**

The isolation nearly drove Castiel insane. The constant chatter of his brethren left a void of silence that he tried to fill by recounting the events that led him to his shackles. Over and over, Castiel cycled through the grim journey, trying in vain to remember any detail that he and the others may have missed, anything that could have predicted their downfall. 

Heaven maintained observation on the Righteous Man’s bloodline, always prepared for the final battle and Michael’s victory over Lucifer. Hell’s prophesied first move came true when John Winchester went to Hell. John proved unbreakable and word of a new plan spread through Heaven. Castiel was assigned to monitor Dean Winchester. He observed as an anguished but determined Dean walked to the middle of a crossroads, dropped to his knees, and dug desperate fingers into the gravel and dirt. The pull of command overrode Castiel’s assigned task, and he took flight as Dean met the crossroads demon for a kiss, sealing his fate. Castiel would pull the Righteous Man from Hell, with the support of his garrison. 

_It is commanded, and so it shall be._

They travelled together, silver blades in hand, divine intention fuelling their unstoppable flight. The stench of sulfur accosted them before they saw the gates shining wetly under the pure light of Heaven’s fury. Centuries of intertwined bone and rotting, oozing flesh were layered together, bound by the energy released from destroyed souls. The angels did not hesitate in their approach, even when the jarring moans and screams of the damned trickled through the thick walls. The Righteous Man’s soul shone like a beacon from deep within Hell and it would guide them, as long as they stayed focused and worked together. 

_Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch'entrate_ was carved into the glassy obsidian stone that lined the path to the gate, and Castiel remembered the chill that rippled through his being as he passed over the jagged letters. _Abandon all hope, you who enter here._

The knights of the garrison attacked the gates as one, bones snapping and cracking beneath the force of their gleaming broadswords, flesh burning where the holy metal cut swaths through the decaying meat. The invoked a hymn of intention, the carol empowering the knights. The gates of Hell collapsed beneath their onslaught. 

Hell was an open desert of obsidian and darkness. Fires glowed orange and red along the distant horizon. Hordes of lesser demons swarmed in the vast open space on the other side of the gates, black wraiths and reanimated skeletal beasts that lunged after the angels, clawing and ripping at their true forms as the angels fought through the masses of those who had never known God’s grace. The unit shifted closer together as the demons began to overwhelm them, the angel’s wings flaring righteously. The demons recoiled and hissed as the light poisoned them, but it wasn’t enough to prevent a wraith from snaking around one of the angels, black smoke creating a divide between the garrison and Nathaniel. Castiel turned, but found his path blocked by Uriel’s impassable stance. Castiel was pinned in the center of the tight formation. The soldiers kept flying forward, even as the angel screamed and fell, leaving Castiel with no choice but to move with them. The wicked focused on the tortured sounds, freeing the others to move deeper into Hell. The horizon glowed brighter as they approached, until they could make out flickering flames that engulfed a forest of massive trees. The charred trees were long dead, despite gnarled branches, devoid of leaves, that reached upward. A flare of pure energy and light pulsed out from the falling angel, and the garrison flew into the fire as Inias passed behind them. 

The tips of their wings were singed and dirty with ash as the blaze began to dwindle deep within the forest. A strong wind blew through the trees, ancient limbs cracking and snapping, some falling. The wind grew stronger as they travelled through the forest, relentless and unending as it whipped back and forth. Castiel could hear the distant moans of those unable to find their way free of the tumult, but the angels pressed forward. 

The wind died down and the first seal was broken as the Righteous Man accepted the offering of his tormentor’s blade. The aftershock of his decision rippled out through Hell, the power of the broken seal nearly shattering their formation as prophecy became truth. Threads of the impending apocalypse began to weave a powerful path of destiny. The Righteous Man’s soul began to dim and Castiel felt urgency ripple through his companions. Their journey now bore a fixed and inevitable end if the angels did not rescue Dean Winchester from Hell. The light of his soul would pale with each new agony he inflicted until demonic darkness consumed his being. 

There was no time to offer forgiveness to the souls that sought redemption and reprieve, reaching for the divine light that passed over them. The angels didn’t pause as the trees thinned and finally ended at a wide marshy river with wrathful and sullen souls shouting up at them from the waters below. 

Fallen angels guarded a city wrapped in tall stone walls. They were deformed, twisted shadows that manifested as winged demons, black eyes shining in the light of the unit’s combined grace. They met the angels in flight over the wall that surrounded the city, attacking with claws and teeth. The angels fought back with shining silver blades, killing many of the demons. Esper and Ion led the garrison, and the demons focused their attacks on them. Brother and sister fell together and the immolation of Ion’s grace burned through the closest demons. The freed garrison took flight over the city, desperate to escape the furious defenders. Castiel felt each loss and wanted to mourn them, pause in reflection of their existence, but that would come later; Uriel flew behind Castiel and wouldn’t slow, wouldn’t allow Castiel to move from his position in center of the formation. 

The city ended at a river that flowed red and thick like blood, darkest near the shores where the current dwindled to nothing but stagnation. The forest resumed across the narrow river, dark and silent. 

The forest ended abruptly, dark ground falling away at the edge of an abyss that stretched endlessly ahead. Moaning souls begged for mercy at its edge, but the angels flew forward with determination as the Righteous Man’s soul grew dim. 

The abyss was cold and silent. Save their angelic bond and the distant, fading light of Dean Winchester’s soul, there was nothing but darkness surrounding them. The abyss began as an illusion of respite that turned into a nightmare of flight. Exhausting and never ending, the angels flew until the unnerving chasm began to affect them, each growing edgy, second guessing their flight in the darkness. Ahead of them, Dean’s soul continued to fade. 

No one saw the frozen cliff until they were before it, the abyss ending abruptly at a wall of ice. The frozen boundary blocked their flight and forced them into a frozen cavern that yawned widely in the side of the wall. The cavern descended into the pit, and all offshoot tunnels led to the chambers that were reserved for special prisoners of Hell. They were close to Dean’s soul, exhausted from their flight, but renewed to have reached the final leg of their journey. There would be no rest until the Righteous Man was rescued from Hell. The battered angels descended into the cavern together. 

The cavern narrowed into a short tunnel. Cold limbs protruded from the walls and frozen, clawed hands snagged at their grace, slowing their flight. Distant screams were muffled here, insulated by the thick walls of ice, victims and torturers alike caught within the depths of Hell. 

The tunnel branched as smaller pathways began to appear. Castiel directed the angels to follow the pale, ailing light of Dean’s soul. The air grew warm as they flew deeper, the walls shiny with melting ice. The limbs changed, too, into sharp talons that curved, scaly hands that bore splintered nails, and razor-edged tentacles that twitched as they thawed. 

A trickle of water on the floor of the tunnel followed its tight twists and turns, heading toward the pit. Slowly, at first, then rapidly as the tunnel grew hot, the trickling stream turned into a strong current as the ice melted to reveal dark stone walls, bits of gleaming obsidian glittering with reflected light of the angel’s grace. 

The closer they moved toward Dean’s soul, the darker it became. Still they continued, ignoring the cries of their own as snarling faces were exposed in the walls, glaring and salivating, hungry for pure grace. They reached for the angels, devouring any snatches of grace they encountered. 

Castiel could feel Dean’s soul nearby. They were close; the walls fought them, another angel falling behind in a flare of burning grace. Around the next turn Castiel caught sight of the heavy wooden door that marked Dean’s cage. Two demons guarded the door in a writhing funnel of black smoke, blocking the entrance. Uriel’s voice rang out loudly behind Castiel, commanding him to see to his duty, then directing the remainder of the garrison to engage the demons. The angels moved forward and the wraiths struck at the formation, focus shifting from the door to the gathered angels, and Castiel rushed forward. 

The worn copper handle gave way easily. Dean’s cage was as much of a device of his own guilt as it was an entrapment. Hell needed no lock to keep him confined. 

The walls were solid flame layered with dozens of burnt, damaged steel racks, haphazardly welded together. Chains and hooks were spliced together and mounted among them. Directly across from Castiel stood Dean, clad in dark blue jeans and a flannel shirt, collar open and sleeves rolled up above his elbows. A leather jacket hung nearby the mangled victim of unknown origin that was pinned in front of Dean. He stared as Castiel advanced, green eyes wide. He clutched a rough stone blade that dripped red, his forearm soaked in blood up to his elbow. 

His now-faceless victim was flayed open, abdomen gutted and throat slashed. Chained wrists fluttered limply, fingers twitching as an overstimulated nervous system short circuited. 

Dean had spent his entire time in Hell within this cell. He’d been tortured here, the floor directly in front of Castiel stained with both his blood and the blood of his victims. He’d been broken here, reduced to accepting the blade as an end to his own torture, unknowingly advancing the Apocalypse. 

Still, Castiel could see the faintest glimmer of purity left in the man before him, a fragment of remaining righteousness surrounded by the fathomless black of corruption. With the strength of his brothers and sisters fighting behind him, their fury and power fuelling his commanded quest, Castiel reached out with conviction for what was left of the Righteous Man’s tattered soul. 

“I am Castiel, Angel of the Lord. I am here to raise you from Perdition.” 

He let his grace brush the failing spark of Dean’s soul, offering salvation. Overjoyed with his success, the cheers of his brothers and sisters clear in his mind, Castiel laid claim to Dean Winchester’s soul. 

But Castiel was too late to save Dean. The spark sputtered and died, slipping away as the darkness spread quickly, too fast for a stunned Castiel to respond. 

Demonic energy enveloped his grace and pierced into his being, moving _through_ him. Castiel was immobilized as it sought something within him. He thought he heard Uriel shout his name before silence overtook him, a foreign swell of triumph invaded him. Dean severed Castiel’s connection to his grace and his brethren in one swift action, yanking something within Castiel that caused his form to shift and change, skin growing to contain him, surrounding and suffocating his grace. Gravity overwhelmed his balance when the black tendrils withdrew and Castiel fell forward onto human hands and knees. 

Castiel stared at his hands where they braced against the warm stone floor, overcome with human sensitivity. He had never formally taken Jimmy Novak as his vessel, but he recognized the dark undertones of Jimmy’s skin. Castiel maintained contact with the human in anticipation of the day when he would need a strong vessel. Instead of his vessel, Castiel was clad in a human-shaped facsimile of Jimmy, a receptacle designed by Dean to contain him and separate him from his grace. 

Castiel looked up at Dean Winchester’s human likeness, black smoke writhing within, and felt as if he were pinned in place by Dean’s cocky smirk. Dean deliberately looked Castiel over slowly, the flat, black gaze trailing over his naked form and leaving Castiel flushed. Unable to move, Castiel felt like Dean was devouring him whole with nothing more than his eyes. 

“Oh, we are going to have fun,” Dean’s smirk widened and the last thing Castiel saw were rows and rows of sharp, jagged teeth. 

.... 

Castiel woke slowly as he began to process his physical discomfort. Everything _ached_ , his body bound by the same bloody chains and barbs that had held Dean’s previous charge. They shifted and rattled when he moved, pain flaring from the wounds where hooks pushed through his skin and shackles were tightly wound around his limbs. 

He gasped, head thrown back against the cage, the pounding in his skull overriding all thought processes. He’d been robbed of the power of his grace, though he knew it existed within the human flesh he wore. He could sense the power of his true being, just out of his reach. 

“My very own angel, huh?” Dean’s voice came from just behind Castiel, hidden from his line of sight. Overwhelmed by the physical pain, it wasn’t until Dean ran one hand down Castiel’s left wing that he realized his wings had manifested physically. A riptide of strange sensation flooded Castiel’s body like tiny sparks exploding just beneath his skin. He jerked in response, crying out at the resounding jolt of pain. 

Dean chuckled in response, his fingers sliding between the feathers until they encountered a quill. He twisted and pulled, _hard_ , and the quill ripped away from thin skin. Castiel arched, and his mouth gaped open, though no sound spilled forth. Searing heat arced across his wing and through his shoulder blades. His breath hitched, vision beginning to fade as unconsciousness teased him. 

“The rest are dead, consumed by the sentries. I can smell their remnants outside the door.” 

Castiel didn’t realize he’d opened his eyes until a feather drifted down in front of his face, a short covert feather. Once pristine and white, it was dark and soot-stained from his flight through Hell. The quill tip was bloody. His gazed locked on the feather as it fell slowly, landing on the ground below his feet. 

If the silence was deafening before, it was thunderous now. Castiel was devastated by the heavy weight of grief centered in his chest. The loss of his brethren had been for naught. Too late. The Righteous Man had transformed despite Castiel’s claim on his fragmented soul, his garrison was lost, and Castiel was trapped in Hell. 

He struggled to focus despite the emotions that raged through him. Disappointment, anger, frustration. Desperation. Human emotions. 

Dean walked into his line of sight and crouched to pick up the feather. He spun it between his fingers as he stood, leaving his fingertips sticky with drying blood. 

“You won’t be flying anytime soon, angel,” Dean murmured, gaze shifting from the ratty feather to Castiel, who stared back with wide, blue eyes. 

Castiel realized that the ragged, wheezing inhalations were his own as his vessel attempted to stabilize itself. Castiel didn’t need to breathe to survive, but he couldn’t compensate for the form’s damage with his grace as he would in a real vessel. 

Dean’s fingers stilled, feather held firmly between them. “I don’t know why you came for me, but you’re too late.” He blinked and his eyes were green again. Castiel didn’t need to see his black eyes to sense the demon lurking beneath Dean’s skin. 

His nature urged him to smite the demon. Instead, he fought the urge to recoil as Dean stepped closer. Dean’s mouth was warm where it touched Castiel’s neck and he tried to pull away, staring at the flame walls that imprisoned him to avoid looking at the demon. 

“Still, I’m flattered that you fought all that way just for little ol’ me,” Dean murmured. The words sent chills along Castiel’s neck, feather forgotten as Dean smoothed rough palms up Castiel’s torso, scraping across pebbled nipples with blunt fingernails. Castiel flinched and tried to move away, but overstimulated nerves left him hissing in pain. 

Dean growled, a low noise of frustration. He ran his hands up and over Castiel’s shoulders and reached for his wings. He grabbed two fistfuls of feathers, twisting and yanking, pain overloading Castiel’s nervous system. Quills began to crack and snap beneath the pressure, pain flaring through his wings. For a moment he felt nothing but blazing pain, and his mouth gaped open. Castiel struggled against his bindings. 

“In return, I claim you,” Dean grunted as the feathers began to give, pulled out in clumps of bloody tissue. “You are _mine_.” 

Castiel couldn’t fight back, couldn’t break free of the chains. The silence where his brothers’ and sisters’ voices once resided hurt nearly as much as the physical pain, worse than not being able to feel his smothered grace. Despite his state, he didn’t want to believe they had lost. 

Dean bit his neck when he tore out the next handful of feathers and pain consumed all thought. Trapped in one of the deepest pits of Hell, taunted by Dean Winchester, Castiel would never die, never hear his brothers and sisters again, never bask in the sacred gardens of Heaven. 

Bleak melancholy gutted Castiel. When Dean stepped back, the floor was littered in feathers and blood, bare skin of his wings nothing but open, bloody wounds. Castiel hung unmoving, his harsh breathing loud in the chamber. 

His vision blurred and something hot dripped down his face, from his eyes. They drifted shut eventually, his consciousness slumbering as his physical form began the process of healing itself. 

Dean was out of sight when Castiel opened his eyes again, much later, new skin dry and itchy as quills began to regrow. The chamber was silent. With nothing to do but replay memories over and over, Castiel was consumed by anguish. 

.... 

Castiel had never contemplated his own thoughts or emotions, or his role in God’s plan. God had willed him to be created and he came into being as Castiel, the angel of Thursday. A careful path was outlined for him with little room for error. He’d never needed to consider himself or his existence, as he was one small part of a much larger whole. Angels followed orders, as they had been created and instructed to do in order to execute God’s will in Heaven and on Earth. 

In Hell, Castiel _wanted_. Whether sin leached from the walls and into the air that he pulled into his lungs, or whether it was an effect of existing in the form of a being that was intended to feel, the despair only intensified his longing. He missed his home, and his presumably dead garrison members who deserved to be honored for their sacrifice. He ached to flex his sore wings freely, to move as a beam of light again. 

Dean returned when his last feather had grown in. Castiel’s physical form had healed despite the constant underlying aches that marked his time spent confined to the rack. When the familiar smile twisted Dean’s face and his eyes flashed black, Castiel felt strong abhorrence for the demon and Castiel’s own traitorous relief at the sight of his captor. 

“You’re not like the humans,” Dean said, appraising Castiel. The angel stared flatly back at Dean, until he elaborated. “Most of them would have cracked by now.” Castiel didn’t respond, but Dean must have caught something in his expression because he raised one eyebrow. “Not such a shiny white knight anymore? Something you want to say, Castiel?” 

Castiel felt his form flood with heat as his disdain turned deadly, into dark wrath that welled up inside of him. Vitriol waited on his tongue, the only weapon at his disposal. And, oh, he wanted to lash out at Dean. If he had nothing left, if it provided any measure of comfort... 

He could feel the weight of Dean’s gaze as he watched for a reaction, swagger gone as he focused on the angel. Castiel met his stare, held it for a beat, and then looked away. In his periphery he caught Dean’s short nod before Dean turned away and moved into the darkness, out of sight. 

Castiel exhaled loudly, swallowing the barbed words he had wanted to use, but hadn’t. He had felt all-consuming wrath, but hadn’t acted. He’d maintained control over his impulses, and Dean had left him with silence and his thoughts. 

As time passed Castiel thought he sensed Dean's presence when he heard the scuff of a boot or a loose bit of stone clatter across the floor. He thought he felt the weight of Dean’s gaze on him, as if Dean were watching him from the shadows. If Dean wasn’t there, Castiel was driving himself mad in the silence as he imagined someone stalking him from the shadows. Dean didn’t show himself, and Castiel couldn’t prove he was being watched. The sounds were so fleeting that he couldn’t be sure he hadn’t made them up. Time passed and each moment of solitude drained his determination. 

He’d watched Dean Winchester grow, cataloging his weaknesses and flaws even as he noted his strengths and abilities. Castiel knew the molecular structure of his human form, could have rebuilt his body from scratch with dirt, and he knew which buttons to push for an emotional reaction. If he wanted to die, he thought his best bet was to act swiftly, push hard, and hope for a swift rebuttal from an angry demon. 

Castiel wondered if this was what happened to human souls; if they survived until the impulse to give in to their sin was too strong to ignore; if they stayed strong until the demon had discovered and exploited each weakness, leaving them broken and begging for any reprieve. 

When he heard the undeniable scuff of worn soles on stone behind him, Castiel felt his lips part, could feel the word as it formed in his mouth, but he was helpless to contain the short, quiet, “Dean,” that slipped out. The Righteous Man was gone, he knew, a demonic semblance of Dean Winchester remained, but Castiel would have taken any company over the silence. 

He thought he felt the ghost of a touch trail over one of his longer flight feathers, and the resulting shiver traveled down his spine, through his shoulders and wings. 

No response came. The silence was excruciating. He silently begged his Father to free him and allow him the comfort of death. 

When he felt the touch brush his other wing, it sparked a despondency that exhausted him. Dean was teasing him. Castiel was a fly, caught in a spider’s web, and the spider like to watch as he struggled. Wrath burned through his human veins, and he could feel something inside of him splinter and crack. 

“I was ordered to rescue you because Sam was never going to come for you,” Castiel spoke fiercely, voice hoarse and dry. “You and your father, both dead... Sam is free.” 

Determined fingers grabbed a fistful of his feathers and yanked. Castiel choked as the pain engulfed him, but the reaction he provoke left him satisfied. 

“What did you say, angel?” Each word was bitten off from between clenched teeth, and Dean’s voice betrayed his fury. 

“You were a burden to your father. You couldn’t take care of your brother,” Castiel let the fears he’d once observed in Dean Winchester’s mind fall from his lips, lashing out in the only way he could. “You put Sam through the same agony your father bestowed upon you--” 

The obsidian blade was pressed tightly against the skin of his neck before Castiel could finish, halting his words. He swallowed and felt the sharp edge break his skin, felt his blood well up around the point just before his neck began to burn. The agony of fire burned through him, stealing his breath as holy oil stung him. Dean had studied up on angels, then. 

“And what, pray tell, has _your_ father done for you lately, Castiel?” Castiel felt Dean’s lips brush the back of his neck as his name was hissed along his skin. Dean dug the blade in and Castiel bared his neck, turning his chin up, eyes closed. 

Dean chuckled and the blade retreated. “What about your brothers and sisters? They have the power of Heaven on their side, and yet here you hang...” The sharp obsidian slid down his neck, skidding over his skin, each nick leaving a path of hot agony in its wake. Castiel’s fingers curled as they itched to dig at his neck. 

“They wasted too many getting you here, they’re never going to save you,” Dean said, the blade dropping away as he stepped around him, bloody feathers falling from his other hand. Dean’s eyes were hooded, and Castiel lowered his chin, meeting Dean’s heavy gaze as he silently prayed for an end. 

Dean smirked, as if he could hear Castiel’s thoughts. He tucked the blade into his waistband and reached out to touch Castiel’s chest, spreading his fingers where Castiel’s human heart thudded within the rib cage. Castiel preferred the hot agony of the blade to the warmth of Dean’s touch as Dean slid his hands over Castiel’s chest. He plucked at Castiel’s nipples, twisting his fingers as he pulled away. Castiel refused to look at Dean, but he could feel a warm flush begin to spread over his torso, up his neck. 

“Nobody cares that you’re breaking, Cas.” Dean’s voice was strong and confident. He pinched harder, pulling his fingers back quickly. Castiel couldn’t help the way his body jerked away, wingtips flaring out from beneath the chains that held them, and he swallowed the indignation he felt at being renamed. 

“You’re mine now,” Dean continued, and the fleeting sensation of warm moisture was enough of a shock that Castiel looked down in time to see Dean’s lips close over his left nipple, tongue sliding flatly over it before he bit down. 

Castiel’s top teeth sank into his lower lip so hard that he felt it split, the stinging a temporary distraction from his burning chest and from the guttural noise that nearly escaped his throat. 

“Not yet,” Dean’s mouth traversed over Castiel’s sensitive skin before he shifted away. “We have plenty of time.” He walked behind Castiel and ran his hands over the feathers, fingers sliding through the uppers until he found the thin skin beneath them. His hands followed the path to Castiel’s shoulders, where his wings emerged from his back, and wrapped around the bone that supported his wings. Dean snapped the left and pain flared through Castiel’s wing, across his shoulders, down his spine. The right was snapped before Castiel realized Dean had moved, and the searing pain doubled. The agony consumed his being so intensely that he wondered if his siblings in Heaven could feel his agony, however distant and muted. 

“They can’t hear you,” Dean said, voice thick as his hands continued to follow the line of Castiel’s bones in his wings. He broke the second one on each side, jostling the first breaks as he did, and Castiel couldn’t contain the broken, gasping noises in his throat, or the tremors that seized his spine. 

Castiel realized his vision was blurred before he felt the hot, wet paths of tears on his face. Dean broke each bone in his wings that he could find, his hands fumbling through the feathers, locating the joints between bones, and then his hands would tighten, pressure would build, and the bone would shift, cracking as it splintered or snapped. 

When Castiel’s wings were broken and twitching, only suspended by the rack, Dean pressed into the middle of Castiel’s back and said, “It’s like I told you: you’re mine.” He mouthed a slick path from the back of Castiel’s neck to the top of his spine, then bit down hard. 

“Mine,” Dean repeated, leaving a trail of smarting bites down his back, each one deeper and more painful than the last. He bit the soft flesh of Castiel’s buttocks, teeth digging in and breaking the skin. 

Castiel heard Dean move behind him, the creak of joints, the rustle of denim and leather as he straightened. Over the white noise of his pain, he could hear the metal zip, hear the sound of flesh on flesh, a quick series of short, rough strokes. Castiel heard Dean’s breathing change, stilted indrawn breaths, just before he grunted, “Mine,” and Castiel felt a warm splatter hit his buttocks and thighs. 

“Mine.” Dean’s voice was quiet but commanding, leaving no room for discourse. The zip sounded again, and Dean’s footsteps began to retreat as he walked away, until the only sound Castiel could hear was his own harsh panting. 

Broken and despondent, Castiel began to believe Dean. 

....


	2. Corruption

**2\. Corruption**

Castiel had never seen Dean leave the cell. He didn’t know if Dean hid in the shadows and watched him or if Dean exited the cell, but when it was silent and he didn’t feel the weight of eyes on him, Castiel thought he was alone. 

The bones in his wings had begun to reknit, plaguing with pain. He didn’t expect Dean until he was fully healed, so Castiel looked up in surprise when the chamber door opened. The human-clad demon who entered caught sight of Castiel and his eyes flicked white. He stared at the chained angel as he pushed the door shut behind him. Castiel held his stare evenly, aware that, this was the powerful demon Alastair, although they had never yet crossed paths. 

“Well, well,” Alastair’s thin lips opened in a wide smile of crooked teeth, and he cocked his head to the side, tapping his fingertips together. “What do we have here?” His voice was as smooth as the surface of a pebble, gritty and fragmented beneath easily-deceived senses. He spoke with a nonsensical lilt that betrayed his depravity. “What has my prodigal son been hiding from me?” He rubbed his hands together as he approached the angel. 

Alastair moved into Castiel’s space without inhibition, as if Dean’s possessions were also his and Castiel had been captured for him. His nostrils flared when his fingers brushed over Castiel’s cheek, and he leaned in to smell him. With his face pressed firmly into the slope of Castiel’s neck, Alastair inhaled deeply. Castiel felt lashes against his skin as Alastair’s eyes drifted shut and a low, lazy smile spread across Alastair’s face. 

“Angelic grace is a rare treat in this pit,” Alastair purred into the curve of Castiel’s neck. His lips were cold, and their touch made Castiel’s skin crawl. Alastair drew his hands down Castiel’s neck, his lecherous touch smoothing over Castiel’s shoulders. He couldn’t help but pull away, even as his numb limbs protested with sharp spasms. Alastair observed him with human eyes, pupils blown. 

“Dean should have taken greater pains to hide you if he wanted to keep you for himself. I can only assume he wanted to taste you first, before he shared with his dearest mentor.” He drew his words out, using his tongue and teeth to emphasize his intentions. 

Castiel said nothing, but felt his apprehension grow within as Alastair moved behind him. 

Alastair ignored his wings in favor of following his spine down to the curve of his buttocks, where he spread Castiel open and shoved a finger into him. It burned, pain searing through the base of his spine, and Castiel felt himself tear when Alastair forced another finger into him. 

Castiel choked when Alastair crooked his fingers and hit something that sent an entirely different sensation through his form. Alastair chuckled at the sound and pressed another finger in beside the first two, spreading his fingers wide before he yanked them out. 

“Dean’s got you wrapped up nice and tight in this skin because it’s the only thing he’s ever been comfortable touching, but I want to taste your grace, angel,” Alastair growled. Castiel braced against the sudden emptiness, but Alastair returned immediately with the blunt head of his cock, forcing himself through the tight ring of muscle. White hot pain flared as Alastair violated him, pushing until Castiel felt his skin split. “I’m sure he’ll accommodate me, just like he was so obedient to his daddy. I’m better: I told him that he was wanted, needed, cared for.” Alastair’s thrusts matched the pace of his words, erratic but weighted. 

Castiel focused on human emotions as Alastair abused him, and the humiliation blotted out all other emotions. Alastair dug his fingers into Castiel’s hips, nails biting into his skin, and matched his teeth to the marks Dean had left on Castiel’s shoulders. 

“I can smell it, beneath your skin,” Alastair said, each word drawn out between grunts, “all that power... I’m going to consume you.” 

“Dean claimed me,” Castiel managed to gasp. He regretted his words immediately as Alastair dug his hands into his feathers and pulled out fistfuls, just as Dean had. He couldn’t breathe and refused to scream, his teeth clenched so tightly against the pain that he could feel them grinding. Pressure built in his throat as the pain overwhelmed his senses, but Castiel didn’t want to open his mouth, didn’t want to give Alastair the pleasure of hearing him scream. 

“You wouldn’t be the first he abandoned,” Alastair grunted, as he forced Castiel’s legs apart further. Their skin slapped together as Alastair shoved more deeply into him, with each thrust. His rhythm began to stutter, and he snarled, “Dean’s mine,” before he clamped down on Castiel’s neck. Castiel writhed and tried to pull away, but Alastair held him closer. He dug his fingers into Castiel’s thighs and came, spilling hot inside of Castiel. 

Castiel couldn’t stop himself from retching when Alastair pulled out. He felt the demon’s essence drip down his legs, a slow, oozing reminder of what he’d endured. Alastair laughed while Castiel coughed and gagged. 

Alastair didn’t leave when he was sated, unlike Dean. He scrutinized every inch of Castiel’s flesh, constantly seeking a crack or incomplete seam that would lead him to the grace that still remained locked somewhere inside of Castiel. He explored Castiel’s body with his fingers and tongue, dipping into the crevices of skin, enjoying the discomfort Castiel tried but failed to hide as his form shifted and jerked, attempting to pull away from Alastair’s invasive touch. 

There was no refractory period with Alastair, either. Castiel was a lock that Alastair couldn’t figure out how to open, no matter how nimbly his fingers twisted the pick. Instead of giving up, he healed the angel and tried again and again. 

Castiel’s form began to react as he adjusted to the pain, the tell-tale tightening in his pelvis when Alastair moved within him, angling just _so_ and exploiting the body’s responses. He insisted on bringing about Castiel’s undoing, coaxing unwilling orgasms with his hands and tongue, determined to find any way to access Castiel’s grace. Castiel had experienced want, but this was his body’s physical response, not true desire. His form hung taut as he fought the physical sensations, his eyes shut tight, and he was often left gasping with the force of having something pleasurable ripped from within him, something that he did not want to give or experience with Alastair. 

Castiel felt like his core was covered in filth. Even when Alastair restored his form he could feel the path of the demon’s touch on his skin, smudges of dirt and debris hidden out of sight. He refused to meet Alastair’s determined gaze when he would step back and survey his damage, laughing at Castiel’s discomfort. 

Alastair looked distracted this time, and instead of observing the angel he paused, arm caught midair as he reached for Castiel again, head cocked to the side as if listening to something that Castiel couldn’t hear. 

His gaze snapped back to the angel and his arm dropped as he retreated, moving away from the rack. “Until next time, angel,” Alastair leered suggestively, wagging his fingers before he slipped through the door. 

Castiel allowed himself a heavy breath before bracing for Dean’s return. He wasn’t disappointed; Dean started whistling a chipper tune in the shadows behind him Castiel felt hands run over his feathers, then through them, and he tried to still the need to arch into the now strangely welcome touch.. 

Dean stilled when Castiel moved perfectly healed wings under his hands. He heard Dean’s footsteps on the floor as he circled around him. Castiel swallowed against the sudden watering in his throat, the panicked beat of his heart. He didn’t want to see Dean’s expression, wasn’t sure he would be able to control the impulse to retch and heave as his vessel wanted to purge each of Alastair’s touches. 

“Castiel,” Dean spoke his name quietly, from in front of him. Castiel didn’t open his eyes until he felt Dean’s fingers touch his cheek in the same place Alastair had first touched him. 

Dean’s expression narrowed, smile going slack as he scanned Castiel’s face. Castiel attempted to keep his features blank as Dean looked him over, walking around him with brisk, purposeful steps. Twice Dean circled him, eyes roving over Castiel’s naked form, before he stopped to stand in front of Castiel again. 

“Something’s different,” Dean said. Castiel didn’t want to meet Dean’s questioning eyes, didn’t want to answer the question he heard in Dean’s words. Despite having no control over Alastair, Castiel felt his cheeks color with shame as guilt itched beneath his dirty skin. Dean had claimed him, and Castiel had been sullied by another. He had felt something in response to another’s touch. 

Strong fingers grasped his chin and yanked his face up. Castiel blinked until his eyes focused on Dean. He wanted to look away from Dean’s heavy glare, but refused. 

“I know you don’t want to tell me, but I will figure it out, with or without your help.” Dean spoke next to Castiel’s ear, where his warm words ghosted over sensitive skin, leaving goose bumps prickling down Castiel’s neck. 

It took Castiel a moment to notice that Dean hadn’t moved away from him, and when his muscles twitched he understood why: Dean’s proximity had evoked a physical reaction that it previously hadn’t. 

Dean grasped Castiel’s length in his hand, grip painfully tight. He pulled twice, slowly, watching the flushed head swell under his ministrations. 

“I didn’t teach you that,” he murmured. 

Castiel kept his eyes shut and swallowed. He didn’t want to look at Dean or confess what Alastair had done, and as Dean rubbed one thumb over the sensitive tip and the other across his bottom lip, he knew that he didn’t have to say anything. Dean knew something had changed. 

“Goodbye, Cas.” 

Dean’s touch disappeared as quickly as he did, gone as Castiel blinked in response to the words. 

Castiel’s stared around him, but Dean was gone. He was overcome by his failures: the thought of his absent Father, of orders that would never be fulfilled. Castiel wanted to ask for forgiveness, wanted comfort in the silence of eventual death, but angels were only cast out and destroyed. Forgiveness was not theirs to request. 

Castiel no longer felt like an angel. 

When he prayed, he prayed for death. Something of his grace remained, but the longer he stayed in the human form, the less he could feel it. It felt like his essence was being absorbed into the skin he wore, into the being he was becoming. 

_Cas._

.... 

Alastair reappeared within hours, slowly opening the chamber door before he slipped through. He saw that Castiel was alone and he smiled, a silver blade glinting in his hand. 

Dean had said goodbye, and Castiel didn’t know what meant. He hung, staring at the floor, eyes unseeing. He felt oddly detached as Alastair began to drag the sharp blade along his skin. Alastair smeared wet fingers over his nose and licked up trails of blood that ran down Castiel’s face, arms, and torso. The blade became closely acquainted with his body, exploring the levels of his human tissue. 

Castiel disassociated himself from the pain, blocking out the cold touch of the blade and the colder touch of Alastair’s skin on his. 

Alastair didn’t prep Castiel this time, instead smearing two fingers over his entrance, both sticky with blood, before he pushed inside. The ripping pain made Castiel spasm, wings straining against their constraints, spine arching, gasping as Alastair fucked him. 

Alastair began to shake as he finished, emptying into Castiel, his essence hunting for what remained of Castiel’s grace. Ragged laughter filled the chamber and it took Castiel a moment to realize that Alastair was shaking with laughter. When he pulled back, wheezing between chuckles, Alastair sauntered around Castiel to observe the damage he’d inflicted. Blood dripped down Castiel’s legs and broken feathers littered the floor around him. 

“I wonder if I were to leave you like this, all used up, if he would even notice. I watched, you know. He barely touched you.” Alastair drew his fingers over the bright welts on Castiel’s chest. “I’m going to unmake you, one bite at a time, and do justice to the power you contain. Power like yours should be used, not left to rot.” 

Alastair curled his fingers into his palm and Castiel’s form was healed, though he felt the aches hidden beneath his skin. He sagged on the rack, barbs tearing into his flesh, but found relief in the temporary reprieve. 

Alastair made a sudden choked noise and Castiel looked up to see his wide white eyes, as his fingers scrabbled at his throat. Something moved behind him and Castiel’s focus shifted to Dean, standing in doorway Alastair had left open. His form was tense, mouth twisted into a snarl, and his right arm reached toward Alastair, hand tightened into a fist. 

“Oh, I noticed,” Dean growled as he approached Alastair. “This angel is mine. I know you can see the mark where I claimed him. You taught me well, Alastair.” His hand relaxed and Alastair caught his breath as he stumbled forward, into Castiel. 

“Now, Dean,” Alastair said as he straightened, pushing off of Castiel. He turned to face Dean and they began to take careful steps, circling around each other. Dean held his arms loose at his sides, hands curled into loose fists. Alastair twisted his neck back and forth, vertebrae cracking loudly. He rolled his shoulders and straightened to his full height, without breaking Dean’s gaze. “Is this how you’re going to repay your Master? I taught you how to claim and turn humans. You know nothing about angels, boy. I can teach you, after I teach you some respect.” 

The blade wasn’t visible until Dean attacked, gleaming stone catching Castiel’s eye just before the tip was pressed into Alastair’s chest, through his shirt and into the pale skin beneath. Dean bore his weight on the blade, forcing Alastair back as he advanced. 

“You ain’t my daddy,” Dean growled, eyes black, and attacked. Castiel could see his lips moving, chanting an incantation as he ducked Alastair’s punches and stabbed with quick, darting thrusts. Dean landed the blade in Alastair’s rib cage, inches shy of his form’s heart, and Alastair countered with a blow to Dean’s face that forced him to stumble back. Alastair caught him by the throat, shoving his thumb into the hollow beneath Dean’s chin as he raised Dean into the air, blade clattering to the floor behind him. 

One moment Castiel was prone on the rack, and the next he felt his confines vanish. He slumped forward without warning, one sore wing beat steadying him before his legs could crumple beneath his form. His physical form _ached_ , his grace was still lost to him, but Castiel was free of the rack and could move of his own accord. 

Across the room, Dean struggled with Alastair’s hands around his neck. He tried to yank at Alastair’s arms and kick out at him, but Alastair evaded Dean’s erratic movements, reacting to each blow before they had a chance to land. They fought between Castiel and the doorway, Alastair’s back to Castiel. Dean’s movements began to grow more sporadic as he fumbled with Alastair’s grip on his neck. 

Castiel reacted. He darted for Dean’s dropped blade and heard an exclamation; he moved as Alastair released Dean and lunged for him. Alastair roared in anger when the angel flew out of his reach. 

“It’s over, Alastair,” Castiel said. Alastair’s surprised expression was satisfying as he turned back to Dean, but too late. His form had begun to fade as Dean finished the spell he’d been muttering since the fight began. 

“He’s not dead,” Dean said when Alastair’s form had vanished, “but that will keep him away long enough.” He held his hand out toward Castiel, silently asking for his blade. 

Castiel’s fingers tightened around the rugged hilt. It was the first blade he had held since the flight into Hell. He didn’t know what happened to his angel blade when Dean captured him, and he didn’t want to surrender the weapon willingly. 

Dean waited. Castiel took slow steps toward Dean, teeth gritted as he placed the blade across Dean’s palm. 

“I could sense his taint, but I couldn’t see it. Now I can. You should have told me, Cas. That’s one of the problems down here: no faith.” Dean nodded at the rack where Castiel had hung. “Get back up there.” 

Castiel balked at the command, his neck and face flushing as indignation flared within him. He’d spent time resigning himself to death, and he was faced with the opportunity. 

“Don’t take it personally,” Dean chided and took a slow step toward Castiel. “I need to remove Alastair’s marks, you need to stay still while I do it. I think we both know whose side I’m on.” 

“Whose side are you on?” Castiel snarled, tattered wings arching above him. His system was flooded with the strong need to flee or fight to his death. 

“My own,” Dean shrugged. “I don’t give a shit about politics. I’m in it for me.” 

Dean had tackled Alastair for him, Dean had given him a taste of freedom, and he asked for faith in return. The fight left Castiel in a heavy exhale and he nodded, resigned, and walked to the rack. 

Faith had been all of Castiel’s purpose, once. It was more difficult to form the word in his mouth now, to believe in anything except pain, but he wanted to try. 

“I will not repeat this lesson,” Dean warned, eyes black when he blinked. Castiel felt the shackles as they snaked around him, yanking him up before the hooks and barbs ripped through his skin, spreading his wings, arms, and legs. “I don’t share well with others.” 

Castiel’s only warning was the slight movement as Dean pulled out his blade. With careful precision, he unmade Castiel’s form, picking him apart, piece by piece. Castiel screamed until his lungs were raw, until Dean cut away his vocal chords. He ripped into Castiel’s wings, hacking them away from his body where they joined his shoulder blades. 

As Dean cut away his flesh, Castiel retreated into his thoughts. Time was infinity for a broken angel, and in that moment he felt disconnected from his grace and his physical form. Castiel was a thought created by Dean Winchester, and he would forever be bound to him. 

Dean cut all the meat from his skeletal frame, digging out bloody brain matter with his hands near the end. “Got it,” he said triumphantly, but no one heard him. 

Satisfied that he’d removed all of Alastair’s contamination, Dean put Castiel back together again. Piece by piece, he recreated the angel with his hands, until Castiel hung whole from the rack. 

Dean spread his hand over Castiel’s chest and said, “Wake up, Cas.” 

.... 

Castiel inhaled suddenly, as if he’d caught his breath. Dean’s smirk was the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes. Something pulled within him when Dean stepped back, and he strained forward against his bonds. 

“My wings,” he said. They felt like they’d been broken and left to set incorrectly, unable to move the same way. 

“Yeah? What about them?” Dean looked behind Castiel, where his wings were spread behind him. 

“They’re not my wings,” Castiel said. He could feel air shift over thin skin that stretched between small, jointed bones that moved similarly to his fingers, feathers no longer protecting him. 

“They look pretty good, if you ask me,” Dean said, his voice light and nonchalant. Castiel glowered at him and Dean rolled his eyes before he relented, “Fine, fine. I made a few changes, upgraded your model. I figured that if you’re going to be spending time with me you might as well look the part. Dark. Sleek. Smooth lines.” 

Castiel glared harder. 

“I was going to let you down so you could get reacquainted with your body, but it’s cool if you’d rather hang out, whatever.” 

Castiel didn’t say anything. Dean huffed, but gave in. The shackles fell and Castiel ripped himself from the rack, ignoring the sharp pain from his skin tearing free of the hooks. Flexing his wings felt like stretching his fingers, but with skin stretched between the digits when he spread them. They were more sensitive to the temperature and wind, each movement felt across the sensitive expanse of new skin that had once been hidden beneath layers of feathers. 

“I don’t want this,” Castiel said, walking toward Dean. He tried to voice the tangled emotion rising inside him, swelling in his chest. “I was holy, created with divine purpose. Now I’m corrupted by human emotion, a monster. Something to be hunted.” 

“That makes two of us,” Dean said, as he ran a palm down Castiel’s chest, steadily moving past his belly and into the thatch of hair just below. “But you’re not alone. You’re mine. I remade you, Cas.” His eyes were bright green, earnest and wide as he stared at Castiel. “We don’t have to be alone.” 

Dean’s palm was dry but warm, movement steady and slow. The tension built quickly, Dean’s pace matching the heat building between them. Castiel’s legs began to shake and his muscles grew tense, pleasure coiling low in his abdomen. 

“That’s it, baby,” Dean urged “give it to me.” 

Castiel came with a broken cry as Dean coaxed every aftershock of pleasure from him. He could feel the feeble flame of his grace sputter, dying within him, but he didn’t feel the hot tears on his cheeks until Dean rubbed his thumb over them, wiping them away. 

“Told you I’d take good care of you,” Dean said quietly. “Now rest.” 

.... 

A muffled noise woke Castiel. On the floor near him, Alastair’s white eyes blazed as he had one wiry arm wrapped around Dean’s neck. Both of his bony knees dug into Dean’s back. Castiel hung from the rack, whole, but he wasn’t bound; he watched as Dean’s fingers scrabbled as he reached for the obsidian blade. 

Castiel didn’t think about his actions. The blade was protruding from Alastair’s back before the demon noticed the angel was free; Alastair shrieked as it pierced his heart, dark light flickering beneath human skin. The light faded and Castiel shoved Alastair’s empty meat suit away, the blade pulling loose as the body slumped on the chamber floor. 

Castiel felt charged as Alastair’s blood dripped from the blade. He rubbed the roughly carved obsidian hilt and he briefly longed for his own blade, to feel the familiar grooves in his hand. 

“All of that, for me?” Dean chuckled weakly from the floor. 

Castiel’s response had been swift with no boundaries between them. He’d protected Dean twice. His pulse sped and he flushed with warmth as knelt beside the demon that had claimed him. 

Dean reached for Castiel’s cheek, as he’d done before. Castiel leaned into the touch because he could; there was no mission or shackles to hold him back. The temptation of moving freely, touching as he chose, overpowered him. Castiel pulled Dean up from the floor and pushed him against the rack. His wings flared behind him, wide and intimidating, and he could feel his strength. Dean had released his shackles and returned his freedoms, however modified. 

Castiel _wanted._

“Mine,” Castiel said as he shifted against Dean, inhibitions ignored as he surrendered to the primal pull between them. Now he could leave his mark on Dean in return; he had never felt the power of an established claim fulfilled, but now he wanted nothing more than to give in to their bond. Free from Heaven’s control, there was nothing to stop him from submitting to his desires. 

“Prove it, Cas,” Dean said. 

Castiel kissed Dean hard, mouth closed. Dean’s was a firm line for the space of a heartbeat and then his mouth softened, lips parting as Castiel moved. Castiel responded automatically when Dean flicked his tongue, his own mouth opening as Dean’s tongue slipped between his lips. Castiel felt a hot rush of desire race down his torso as Dean kissed him wetly, and he returned the kiss with fervor. 

_Mine,_ Castiel thought, and he took what was offered, devouring the line that trailed from Dean’s ear to his collarbone, then down, down, down. 

.... 

Afterward, when Dean could walk again, he looked at Castiel and said, “You wanted to see your wings?” Castiel didn’t have time to respond before Dean flicked his wrist and a tall mirror stood across from Castiel. 

He had no time to prepare for the sight in front of him. Castiel stared at his reflection, which showed a man of average height and build with dark, messy hair, deep blue eyes, and thick stubble across the lower half of his face. Two wide wings flared behind him, but they didn’t resemble the wings he had manifested previously. These were wide, with dark, thin skin that stretched between long, delicate bones. No feathers. He would still fly, but differently. Castiel had fallen from grace, and had risen as a creature of the night. 

He watched the wings move as he flexed his muscles, stretching the long bones up and out, feeling the thin skin pull taut between them. The more he moved and stretched his new wings, the more he would adapt and learn to balance with them. Flying would be different, but the chamber wasn’t tall or deep enough for him to try free movement. 

“Well?” Dean stood next to Castiel, watching him. “What do you think? Ready to take them for a test drive?” 

Castiel’s brow furrowed as he attempted to process the analogy. “They move differently. It will take me time to adjust, but their flexibility may grant greater efficiency when I fly. I don’t think I will need to test them much.” 

Dean smirked at Castiel, who stared back at him with a slightly puzzled expression. “I’ve been talking to a few demons and I’ve heard there’s a back door to Purgatory a few levels away, if you’re interested.” Dean raised a brow and Castiel could see the challenge in his eyes and hear it in his voice. “I hear it’s nice in Kansas this time of year. Ever been?” 

Castiel mutely shook his head. He’d watched Dean drive across the country, but he hadn’t walked on the Earth’s surface in centuries. He knew passageways existed between the dimensions of Hell, Purgatory, and Earth, just as he knew that making their way out of Hell and into Purgatory was a risky flight, if it was possible at all. 

“I have some unfinished business upstairs,” Dean continued, pulling Castiel from his thoughts. “A few loose ends to tie up.” Dean winked at Castiel and said, “You could protect me.” 

Despite the jest in his tone, Castiel could hear Dean’s sincerity. He didn’t want to tell Dean that he would follow Dean no matter where he went, but the connection between them conveyed every nuance without Castiel voicing the words. 

“Yes,” Castiel said, and held out Dean’s blade. Dean’s smile split his face when he took it. He tucked the blade into his waistband before he walked to the door, the one Castiel had once fought to reach. 

“Come on,” Dean called over his shoulder, “You and I have one hell of a trek ahead of us. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Sammy, and we’ve got a lot of catching up to do.” 

The doorknob turned easily in Dean’s hand and the chamber door swung open, the dark tunnel beyond beckoning. Dean didn’t look back, didn’t wait for him. He trusted that Castiel would follow. 

And Castiel did. 

***


End file.
